


Sometimes you don't

by Builder



Series: Whoa Bessie [22]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Established Bucky Barnes/Steve Rogers, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Protective Steve Rogers, Sickfic, Trans Steve Rogers, Vomiting, War Veteran Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-10
Updated: 2020-01-10
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:13:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22199155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Builder/pseuds/Builder
Summary: “Fuck.”  It’s the word of the day, like on Sesame Street.  James feels he has the approximate bodily regulation of the show’s intended audience right now. His head aches, and his stomach and throat still feel raw from the most recent round of content expulsion.  So maybe he is sick, in an after-the-fact kind of way.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Series: Whoa Bessie [22]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/892050
Comments: 1
Kudos: 60





	Sometimes you don't

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on Tumblr @builder051

James sits on the sofa in his pajamas, the remote in his hand, but the television off. He threw up when he got out of bed. He feels like he could again, so moving is out of the question. Even twitching his thumb to make the screen in front of him go from black to some rerun of Supergirl or History Detectives or whatever the hell they were watching last time.

Steve’s at work. James should probably call him, but he doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want to sound the alert that he’s sick. He doesn’t want to make Steve worry, pick up a bunker’s worth of gatorade and crackers on his way home. 

Besides, he’s not sick. Not really. He doesn’t have the flu or appendicitis or some easily diagnosable condition. He’s not running a fever. He’s just… James isn’t quite sure how to describe how he feels.

His stomach’s on the fritz, that’s for sure. Bubbling something toxic past his chest and into his throat. James swallows, and besides tasting bile, he feels his shoulders droop as if he’s taken on a barbell just a smidge heavier than expected. 

“Hmph,” he grunts, jolting forward an inch or so and giving the vile liquid inside him free reign to slosh up and down sickeningly. He presses the thumb side of his fist to his lips and gulps again. 

James isn’t sure why he’s so set on holding it down; he’s alone and has nothing to prove. He has all the privacy to slouch down the hall to the bathroom without anyone seeing. Or he could even sick up all over the table if he wanted; he’d have plenty of time to clean before Steve came home to see. 

Steve would know, though. He’d smell the cleaner, or find the wad of paper towels in the trash can. He’ll know even if James is more surreptitious, James is sure of it. He feels disgusting. And stuck. And if he doesn’t get up soon, he’ll be both fucked and covered in his own mess.

James heaves a sigh that winds up becoming a heave. Just a small one, though. One he can fight down. But regardless, it’s time to get up. James throws the remote onto the table with a clatter that practically makes his hearing aids pop, sending air and pressure down into his canals, which drive up the headache and drive down his willpower. Gunk shoots up in his throat, and it takes a shaky hand over his mouth to save the living room rug. 

James expects his palm to be a gory mess of yellow bile, maybe even blood when he glances down at it gripping the toilet seat. But it’s not. Clear fluid and whitish strings of mucous cling to it instead, and that’s what he vomits up. At first, anyway. The first few retches bring up a painful amount of nothing, then a sudden, huge heave cuts off his air and a gush of stomach contents so digested they’re past recognition spill down his chin on their way into the plumbed depths. 

James spits and wipes his nose on his shoulder, thoroughly disgusted with himself. A wave of lightheadedness washes over him, and he wonders if he’s about to pass out. He reaches quickly for the edge of the toilet to hold himself up, ignoring the spray of spit slicking up the hard white plastic.

After a moment the neon stars edge slowly out of James’s visual field, but the dizziness sticks around, settling resolutely into nausea again. “Fuck,” he whispers, then hooks his chin on the toilet seat and lets saliva drip, thick and ropy, into the mess he’s too exhausted to flush away. 

Two short heaves and a mouthful of spit later, James is finished. He’s sure of it, though his gut still rumbles. It’s uneasy with the emptiness, though. There’s nothing left to be rid of. 

James rotates slowly on his knees and swings his arm over his head, using the basin of the sink to pull himself into a standing position. He pauses to look at his gaunt expression in the mirror, but quickly shuts his eyes and turns away. He looks a little too much like the broken soldier who came back from the war, refusing to eat, refusing to speak, without so much as an emergency contact in his case file. That is, until, well, until Steve.

Steve. James huffs softly as the name runs through his mind. He leaves his and Steve’s bathroom to burrow down in his and Steve’s bed. Everything in this apartment is his and Steve’s. Well, first it was Steve’s. Then it became theirs. Or so Steve told him. James had come to think of everything as his as well, but now that he reconsiders, it really isn’t. 

“Fuck.” It’s the word of the day, like on Sesame Street. James feels he has the approximate bodily regulation of the show’s intended audience right now. His head aches, and his stomach and throat still feel raw from the most recent round of content expulsion. So maybe he is sick, in an after-the-fact kind of way. 

James collapses on top of the comforter, but doesn’t make a move to slide under it. He grabs one edge, though, and makes himself a burrito of sorts, pulling half the thick blanket on top of his lightly trembling body. James brings his knees toward his chest and cuddles himself into as small a ball as he can.

Steve gets home approximately four hours later. “Buck?” he calls when he comes through the door, setting his bag on the kitchen table where he knows it doesn’t belong. “Where are you? You ok?”

James is still asleep and doesn’t respond.

The bedroom is the third place Steve looks, after the living room and bathroom. “Hey, Buck.” He sits on the edge of the mattress, the side covered in only soft flannel sheets. “Naptime?”

“Hm?” James stirs. He unrolls the comforter an inch or so, just enough so he can speak without being muffled. “I guess.” He wants to sit up, but the pressure in his stomach says he shouldn’t. So does the pressure in his head. That’s not illness, though. It’s more like… James isn’t sure.

“I don’t really know,” he whispers, realizing a moment too late that Steve hasn’t yet asked what’s wrong. “I mean, I’m ok.”

“Sure.” Steve softly tucks a strand of James’s hair into the crease between his cheek and the pillow. He graces his fingertips over James’s forehead, probably checking for a fever. He exhales softly when he finds none. “Just feeling off?”

“Yeah.” James’s throat scratches around the words. “And I, uh, threw up a few times.” Steve has to know; he has to smell it on him.

Steve offers a small sympathetic smile. “Aw, Buck.” He sweeps his hand over James’s forehead again, this time catching the clammy sweat in the fine creases, then slowly running his long fingers through James’s slightly greasy hair.

“If it was a bug, the whole VA would have it.” Steve shakes his head. “Probably just a one-off.”

“Two-off, maybe,” James, says, a tiny smile playing across his lips.

“Two-off,” Steve repeats with a chuckle. “Yeah, we’ll hope that’s it.” He fluffs a pillow and plumps it behind his back, then pats his lap, inviting James to snuggle in.

James gladly takes the bait, swiveling around to place his head on Steve’s thighs. “Thanks,” he whispers.

“Of course,” Steve whispers back, the words lingering like a kiss between them. “Of course, Buck. Always.”


End file.
